“I promise, Steve won’t be pissed. And I will buy you twenty boxes of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch if you take me to McFadden.”
I find it hard to believe the Steve/Sven I know could seriously get pissed about anything unless it has to do with bad hair, but I’m not about to tell this guy that.
“Peanut butter is delicious. Captain is crunchy. Crunchy is a funny word. I think Martin is in the snack making a kitchen,” he tells me with a nod toward the back of the house.
Good lord, this guy needs to be the poster boy for why kids should stay off drugs.
Taking a step past him and into the living room while he stands there licking the Day-Glo orange cheese off his fingers, I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked and I stop in my tracks.
“Take your gun out of its holster and toss it onto the couch, slowly.”
It’s Sven, without the accent. I slowly turn around with my hands in the air and see him standing at the opening of the hallway with a .44 Magnum aimed right at my head. Holding that gun at me, he no longer looks like a hairdresser with a poodle named Mrs. Justin Bieber. Right now he looks like he would shoot me between the eyes without even blinking.
With one hand still up in the air, I slowly reach down with my other hand and gradually pull my gun out of its holster and do as he says, tossing it onto the couch cushions.
“Now, toss me your car keys,” he demands.
Have I mentioned yet how stupid an idea this was coming here alone?
Sliding my hand into my front pocket, I pull my keys out and chuck them at him. He easily catches them with the hand not holding the gun and puts them in his own pocket.
“Hey, Stevie, are we all out of mayo? I looked in the pantry and I don’t—”
McFadden walks into the room with Tinkerdoodle under his arm and stops speaking as soon as he sees the scene in front of him.
“What’s going on? Oh my gosh, don’t shoot her!” McFadden wails as he looks back and forth between me and the gun pointed at my face.
“Look Sven, Steve, whatever your name is, I don’t want any trouble. I could care less what’s going on here. I have a cousin who smokes pot for his glaucoma. Great stuff, excellent results. I just want to take McFadden in nice and peacefully so the bondsman can get his money back,” I say.
“It’s okay. Stevie won’t hurt you, will you, Stevie? I’m finished with my life of crime. I’ve learned my lesson. The life of a thug is no life for me,” McFadden says wearily as he starts to walk toward me.
Before he can even make it a few steps in my direction, Steve quickly reaches out and grabs hold of McFadden’s arm, yanking him back so hard that he drops Tinkerdoodle to the floor. Steve keeps McFadden close to him and brings the gun up, pressing it right against McFadden’s temple.
“STEVIE! What are you doing?! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” McFadden cries hysterically.
“I’m gonna go take a nap,” the pothead over by the door suddenly announces before shuffling off down the hall in his duck slippers.
“I knew letting you hide out here would be a bad idea. Now the fucking cops are going to be swarming this place. Do you have any idea how much product I’m going to lose when they storm in here? How many millions of dollars are going to go right down the drain because you’re a fuckup?” Steve yells angrily.
“Stevie, don’t say things like that! I thought we were friends!” McFadden cries.
“Oh, shut up. We were never friends; I just tolerated you so you’d take the fall for me back in high school. And now look where that got me. A fucking cop here in my living room and thousands of pounds of weed in my basement,” he growls, gesturing toward me with his gun.
I need to get McFadden away from this lunatic and get out of this house. How the hell am I going to do that without a gun?
Tinkerdoodle lets out a small little yip when her stares at McFadden go ignored and a thought pops into my head. It’s not the brightest idea in the world, but I’m obviously not very full of bright ideas today, now, am I?
I’m hoping McFadden is pissed off enough at finding out our boy Steve here was never really his friend and he’ll play along. Otherwise, we’re all screwed.
“Hey, McFadden. Remember that day we hung out at the tailgating party and you made me a hamburger?” I ask him, staring pointedly down at Tinkerdoodle.
Come on, get the hint. Get the hint.
“Remember how sweet and loving Tinkerdoodle was with me before you left?”
I’m starting to lose my faith in this guy and Steve is beginning to look suspicious when I see the lightbulb go on in McFadden’s brain.
I give him the tiniest of nods. He swallows thickly, squeezes his eyes closed, and screams, “TINKERDOODLE! ATTACK!”
Just like on tailgating day, Tinkerdoodle jumps to action in a blur of fur, snapping teeth, yapping barks, and flying spit as she charges at Steve’s leg and clamps down on his ankle.